


Mere Height and Distance

by kingbooooo



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, a little light begging never hurt anyone, dead Sir John do not eat, for god's sake just touch the man, just a ridiculous amount of introspection, so you thought a costume party would solve your crippling self-esteem issues, somebody please give everyone on terror and erebus access to hot water and soap, spoiler: it did not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27521467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingbooooo/pseuds/kingbooooo
Summary: It was nothing but need.  Need and smoke and sweat and guilt and remorse.  Britannia was supposed to solve this.  He could leave all of his shame inside that tent.  He was Britannia.  Only a true Englishman could have become Britannia.  Now Britannia lay in a heap at the door.“Please.”- - -After Carnival, a tired, lonely James takes stock of things, including where he stands with a newly-sober Francis.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 20
Kudos: 46
Collections: Fall Fitzier Exchange





	Mere Height and Distance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JennaCupcakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/gifts).



> James took a bit of a tumble during Carnival, so there are some passing descriptions of minor wounds and blood.

_Touch me._

He reeked. Smoke. Sweat. Old sweat. The costume was not as clean as he thought it was, but James had been a little drunk when he’d chosen it and a little drunk when he’d worn it, and of course he’d been drinking throughout Carnival. Francis had emerged from the gloom like a mirage, his eyes clear, his face one of surprise without malice. The vision hadn’t sobered James up. That would have been nice, but no. Instead, it made him acutely aware of his level of intoxication, and aware of what he’d done and how much control he’d lost. Francis had done all that, unintentionally.

Now that he had time enough for reflection, James took an accounting. Sweat. Old sweat. New sweat. The harsh sweat of embarrassment and the stink of alcohol as he’d sweated it out. Smoke. Burnt. Blood. That was his, he was pretty sure. It was fresher than some of the other smells.

There was also the grit. The costume seemed to stick to him. It didn’t breathe. Not that his other clothes were like the lovely cotton shirtsleeves he wore in warmer climes, but this costume was heavy and it stank and it clung to his skin. James reached a hand up unconsciously touching his hair, cringing when his fingers met greasy locks.

_Touch me._

A numbness had settled on him when he’d realized that the tent was on fire. He’d fallen back on instinct, a united front with Crozier. Francis. They did make a decent team. Equals. Perhaps. 

When he had been Sir John’s second, James was not an equal, nowhere close. It was fair and correct. Sir John had command. Crozier captained Terror. And James was third. The gulf between Sir John and Francis was wide and bottomless, but the one between Sir John and James seemed surmountable. It was mere height and distance, James on the stage, looking up at Franklin’s box seat, resigned to his pantomime of a well-bred Englishman.

Sir John was nothing if not unfailingly correct. He trusted James with what he was due, nothing more and nothing less. It should have provided him with the security of knowing there would be no familiarity beyond the boundary of public pleasantries, and yet James found himself continually looking to ensure he was within the circle of light that Sir John cast.

Too late did James realize that Sir John was not the sun. He wasn’t even a particularly bright star. That belief had enabled James to carefully craft his faithful devotion to Franklin, the man filling some piece of his psyche that needed attention. Naturally, that was why Sir John’s death was so painful, that edifice James had constructed sundering under the weight when first he laid eyes on the remnants of Sir John.

James looked up. The sky was dim, but the sun had returned. He blinked, vaguely thankful for daylight. He’d spent so much time in the dark he was afraid that he’d begun to turn into one of those cave-dwelling creatures, blind and slimy to the touch. 

The air was grimy. Everything was grimy. There was no way to get clean, not really, but the smell of burnt bodies, crisp and foul and wrong, James felt sure it was going to linger on him, on his skin, in his hair, up his nostrils, for a long time. What he wouldn’t give for a large copper tub and hot water and clean towels and soap.

“James?” He looked up. It was Francis. Newly sober, newly reborn.

James must have just sat there, mouth open, time ceasing to have meaning. He must have looked a fool. Soot-caked, smelly, ragged urchin in a tattered costume.

“James?” This time it was softer.

_Touch me._

_Lord almighty. Touch me. Please._

“Francis.” It was more of a croak than a voice. He stood, his joints creaking as though he’d been the one abed for a month. “I…” _Christ._ “These men need names.”

Francis shrugged, a gesture that James was inclined to have attributed to scorn or dismissal, had it been harsher, and accompanied with that scowl or sneer. This was gentler, more of agreement, of sympathy for the task at hand. 

“I will leave you to it. We are without a doctor,” Francis said, shaking his head, a lock of blond hair tufting out from under the brim of his cap. It looked almost red in the sun. “Goodsir will most like fulfill the role, but that still leaves us short. I wonder if we can crimp someone into service.”

James straightened up to his full height.

“I’ve some idea of my own,” he mumbled, wiping his brow. He looked at his hand where it had swiped at his face, noting how the side of his hand was now streaked with grit, grey and black and a deep ugly brown.

“Oh.” Francis sounded almost cheerful. Who was this man? James had half a mind to walk across the expanse to Terror to ensure this was the real Francis and not a changeling, as though the faeries didn’t have better things to do than kidnap an aging drunk. They’d have to find the ships first, and James doubted that such magic extended to this barren lonely stretch of sea.

“Shall I come by later?”

James demurred. “You are in charge of this expedition, if we should even still call it that,” he said, falling back to the roles he was used to, Francis replacing Sir John in the chain of command. It was easier than unpicking where they stood after the fight, Francis’ convalescence, and…whatever had transpired at Carnival.

“I am. But I value your input and your discretion.” He paused, waiting for an answer.

Let him wait. If this was a trick, James did not have the time. “Yes. Of course. Later. I need to get out of this…getup.”

“I’ll leave you to it. But please, do not feel as though you must shoulder this alone. You are not at fault, not entirely-” Francis must have seen James’ face crack. “Not at fault! No, Captain, not your fault at all.”

James sighed, his shoulders near sinking to his knees. Francis turned, only just in time so that he did not see the tear that crept out, James hurriedly wiping it away before it traced a telltale cleansing path down his cheek.

\- - -

He held it together, his mind, his emotions, his guilt, fist-fighting each other and beating against his ribs painfully like a caged animal. For whatever reason, when he made it back to his quarters, the door closed so that he was finally alone, in private, the creatures settled, less interested in escape.

 _No mischief_ , James admonished his feelings, although he did find his face wet with tears as he pulled the tunic over his head. With it off, he could appreciate how very dirty it was. How dirty _he_ was. He noted three distinct areas streaked with blood. His fingers touched it, noting how the fabric had stiffened as it had dried. 

There was no part of the garment that was clean. The hems were begrimed from where it had dragged, the collar and cuffs dark with sweat. Belatedly, he wondered where his helm and shield went. The tunic was tossed aside.

James’ hands went to the undertunic, which was clean in comparison. He pulled the hem up, the garment catching on something. Tugging harder, he let out a cry of surprise and pain.

He’d gotten cut or wounded. It didn’t feel as though it was large, but James couldn’t tell from the angle, right above his hip, even when he looked in the mirror. He swore. Tugging again didn’t free the cloth from where it had affixed to him as his abrasion had bled, instead making the healed wound throb a bit. It was the first feeling he’d had since…he wasn’t sure. He’d been riding a wave of inebriation and numbness since deciding on Carnival.

As though he would get a different result, James tugged again. It hurt. It was better than not feeling anything. But he’d tugged too hard, and now-

“Fuck!”

“James?” The closed door dulled Francis’ voice.

Was Crozier to witness all of his moments of failure?

“A moment!” James called out.

Christ. There was no way to get out of this in a dignified manner, he reflected, pulling the tunic back on, scrabbling for his formal jacket to cover his state of partial undress.

Francis was looking at the books along the shelf of James’ cabin. The ones that had been Sir John’s.

“Ah. James.”

“Francis.” James straightened up, the undertunic impairing his ease of movement.

They stood there, regarding each other, Francis looking at him, seeing him. Was that how Francis had looked upon him at Carnival? James was unsure, it was over so quickly before the descent into Hell. The way he was looking at him now, it was as though Francis saw James as he was when unadorned by flashy naval finery or cheap playacting attire. It was unnerving to be so…. _seen_.

“Are you hurt?” Francis’ eyes flitted to the undertunic, bunched around James’ shoulders where the fabric had been pushed by the tight sleeves of the formal jacket. His brows pinched momentarily.

“I-no. Well, not really-”

“James.” Francis’ voice was a little stern. James found himself wanting to comply, along with the shame of unquestioned compliance.

“I…it’s nothing.” Still, he slid the jacket off. “It’s stuck,” he said, plucking at the undertunic.

Francis knelt, taking the fabric in his hands and pulling gently.

“Got yourself caught up, didn’t you? Flew a little too close to the sun.”

James huffed, his body tensing.

_Touch me, please._

“Do I look like I’ve drowned? Too cold to melt ice enough for a watery death,” he said, a little sharper than he meant.

Francis chuckled good-naturedly. James wanted to hit him.

“We are too far from the sun. But…” Francis stood, reaching into James’ hair at the back, pulling something loose.

A feather. Francis held it up.

“Probably from Irving. I think he was an angel.” Francis turned the feather in his hands before setting it aside. “I need shears.”

“Top drawer.”

James looked studiously at the books as Francis knelt again, a quiet _snip, snip, snip_ as he trimmed the fabric away. James braced himself mentally for it, a not-unknown or unwelcome sensation, but clearly not well enough. At the touch of fingertips on his skin, he nearly jumped away.

“What?”

“I’m filthy,” James said, looking away.

Francis sighed. “I spent the past month expelling everything inside me out of every orifice. My hair is probably part booze. A little dirt is not a bother.”

_Snip._

_Touch me. More._

_Snip. Snip, snip, snip._

_Please._

_Snip. Snip._

“What was this, a tunic? I don’t think you were saving it. If you were, you should have said something earlier. You’ll probably need to soak this to get the cloth off, or I suppose you could leave it.” His fingers, cool and rough along James’ bare skin, tracing around where the fabric was stuck. “Seems foolish to ask, but are you cold?”

James looked down, Francis’ gaze intent on the spot of tunic still stuck to James. “You keep jumping when I touch you.” He poked an accusing finger into James’ side.

“Hey!” James laughed in spite of himself.

Francis laughed too, looking up at James. “Checking for other injuries.” His fingers skimming a bit away from that spot.

James untensed slightly, unwillingly, resting a hand on the table to lean on, trying to think about anything, please god anything other than Francis’ fingers on his skin, ranging away from that abrasion, down to James’ hip.

Once, James had felt pride in how much the tailors had to take in, the amount of fabric pinned away as they clucked and fussed over his measurements. Sure, such slightness was not the ideal masculine shape, but he loved the lithe, tall figure he cut, the striking silhouette in uniform, strong shoulders, soft cascading hair, slender waist. Unforgettable.

Now, that hipbone jutted out, an angry, hard, ugly reminder of how far they were from England and the banquet of rich foods he could refuse, the distance to return there, the many miles south before they would even clap eyes on another seaworthy vessel. James was so much closer to the tipping point than he’d realized.

The touch was light. Not light enough to tickle. Gentle. Curious.

“Oh, James,” Francis said softly.

James flinched away. That touch, the warm breath on his skin. He felt his body responding, but he could not stand Francis’ pity.

“James-”

“No. No. I know I look awful. How loose my clothing has gotten.” He fumbled about for his jacket, hearing Francis laugh quietly.

“How dare you!” James whirled on him, barbs at the ready. Francis may have freed himself from the vices of alcohol, but there were plenty of other targets left.

“James, I don’t know how you’ve managed to draw an insult from a touch.” Francis held up his hands. “I mean no offense. I will…” He stood slowly, stepping back.

Another wave of shame threatened James. No. This time he would not let it pull him under to that safe miserable place where his thoughts could stay. He fixed his eyes on the floor. That seemed a secure anchoring point. _Touch me. Please, God. Touch me. Hold me._

“Please.”

_Put your hands on me, Francis._

“Please.” His voice cracked. The air had gone stale.

_Hold me. Touch me._

Francis was very close. His fingertips skirted James’ hip again.

_Touch me. Fuck me._

“Again,” Francis responded.

“Don’t make me beg. I’ve lost enough. I won’t lose the last vestige of my pride, but,” James looked up. He was expecting a smirk, the old Francis, ready to communicate where James stood. Below Francis. Unworthy of respect. Unworthy of command. 

_Unworthy of love._

He deserved that. Carnival was his idea. Now they had lost so many- no. Died. Burned. Trampled.

Francis looked at him with sympathy. It was almost worse. James deserved Francis’ scorn.

“Please.”

\- - -

A hand on his hip, firm and warm and steady. Francis’ arm around his waist, James allowing himself to be pulled in and led to his sleeping quarters. Fingers were unbuttoning his trousers, James praying that Francis wouldn’t comment on the slackness of the waistline. They paused there when James held up a palm.

“I thought-”

“I-yes. But…I need you, I need…” James’ hair was in his face as he’d ducked his chin down. It was going to get in his mouth. Preferrable to looking Francis in the eye.

Blasted Francis had the same observation, two fingers pushing James’ hair back as Francis backed him into the berth. There truly was not nearly enough room.

“I know I’m a horror,” he mumbled.

“Never,” Francis said softly as James scrunched up against the headboard.

_For God’s sake Francis._

“I…I want…” James tripped over his words. “Francis…”

Francis leaned in. There was not much room at all on the bunk and yet Francis had bent in, his hands on James’ waist, lips brushing that spot where his hipbone was particularly prominent, hard beneath clammy skin, James recoiling involuntarily, letting out a noise of surprise at the pressure. The warmth.

“I’m unclean, Francis, you shouldn’t-”

“Please, for one moment. One small moment,” Francis was looking perturbed. Ah. The old Francis. James cringed. “Stop planning. Plotting. Thinking about how you look to anyone or how anyone looks at you.” Francis kissed the other hip, James hardening in his smallclothes.

“Let me take care of you,” Francis said quietly, looking up at James.

“Please touch me, Francis. For God’s sake. Please. Please. Pl-”

Francis was kissing him. Closed-mouth and sure, igniting the fire in James’ belly that had kindled when he’d looked down from atop the shoulders of the men and saw Francis, sober, face pale and eyes clear, gazing up at him, curious and surprised.

Was that how James had always wanted Francis to look at him? He’d loathed Francis, fiercely envious of him, enraged at Francis after the death of Sir John, mired in his grief, and here Francis was, kissing James, sinking into him, warm and heavy and _real_. Every point of contact with Francis was almost painful with need and not enough, not nearly enough even as Francis wrapped James in his arms.

“Please,” he asked. One part of him would have tried to be less desperate, less needy. That part of him died in that fire.

It was nothing but need. Need and smoke and sweat and guilt and remorse. Britannia was supposed to solve this. He could leave all of his shame inside that tent. He was Britannia. Only a true Englishman could have become Britannia. Now Britannia lay in a heap at the door.  
“Please.”

And so Francis complied.

\- - -

There had been more than the expected amount of fumbling, in James’ opinion, but he was not going to voice that observation. James was partially undressed. He’d taken a handful of bumps in escaping the fire.

“I’m not going to break,” James said with a touch of frustration. He’d gotten his wish, but at what cost? A kind Francis, who was going to be gentle, too gentle. He did not need to be handled like a porcelain gravy boat that only came out of storage for special occasions.

“Yes, but-”

James hissed as Francis accidentally clipped a bruised spot.

“Sorry.” Francis rubbed his temple, clearly a bit frustrated. James prodded him.

“Don’t start things you can’t finish, old man.”

That had caused a laugh and a smirk.

“I’ll make you regret that remark.”

They’d ended up with James on his side, tucked into Francis’ embrace, James’ back flush with Francis’ front. James’ need outweighed his shame, but there was still some, a residue that hadn’t been burned up in the fire, and not having to look Francis in the eye lessened it a bit. Francis’ right arm looped around James’ waist, his left cradling James’ neck. He closed his eyes as Francis nestled his face into James’ neck, his breath hot, tickling the tiny hairs there.

The trousers had been undone, James pushing them down, just enough so that Francis could get a hand on James. He would have liked the fire, the excitement of a new lover but that was too much to hope for now. It would have to wait until they were home.

Nevertheless, Francis on him, his hands on him, pulling him out. This was sufficient. James smiled inwardly. Sufficient, as though this was an order of supplies that needed completing. Twenty-seven hundred pounds of candles. One-hundred and seventy gallons of cranberries. One dog. One cat. Two hundred pens.

And one Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier.

It was more than sufficient, Francis’ hands, his breath, the lilt in his voice as he gently encouraged James on. He thought he might collapse like a tent, or that he wouldn’t be ready at all, but his body, which had failed in so many other ways, did not disappoint.

“Christ,” he exhaled as Francis pumped his cock slowly, all thought of sufficiency and necessity wiped clean. James rounded his back into Francis, who curled around him more. Every point of contact, every breath, every sigh brought James closer, his mind skipping along every demand on his senses, the firm grip on him, Francis’ warm, clean, slightly smoky scent, the way his clothing bunched uncomfortably around his knees. James drank it in like a man plucked from the desert. He was having to concentrate steadily on not spending over Francis’ first few tentative moves.

He found himself relaxing.

“Good?”

“Very,” James replied.

Francis chuckled.

He _was_ good at this. James shut his eyes, losing himself in everything he couldn’t see. The ship’s creaking, Francis’ murmurs in his ear, a warm body next to him. No, not next to him like a bunkmate. With him, touching him, an anchor, another human.

It would be messier. James didn’t care. He rolled over, guiding Francis’ hand between them, on his cock, hard, a beading of wet at the tip. He wanted to be able to see Francis, whose face was one of concern.

“You won’t break me but for fuck’s sake Francis, if you don’t-” James moaned as Francis pumped him again. God, it felt good to have a hand on his cock that wasn’t his own, turning his face into the pillow to muffle himself.

“Close,” he stuttered out. That fire Francis had fed inside James was burning bright, a bright need deep in his belly. His muscles ached, his low back threatening to go into spasms.

“Come on then, Fitzjames,” Francis said, a smirk in that lilting voice.

“Imperious as ever,” was his reply, the last rational thought he had before that fire roared up and out, James groaning like a rotted plank splitting, arching up as he came, his hips moving with a jolt into Francis, who made a sound that might have been approval, or surprise. A part of James hoped he was impressed. James had always been rather productive, prideful of it as he was with all things. “A complete hash,” a former lover had remarked with irritation. Jealously, more like.

His strength was gone, replaced with all of the hurts and aches, settling back into his bones. The spot where he’d cut himself throbbed gently. A moment away from this nightmare. James’ eyes focused on a knot in the plank above the bed.

“How fare you now, Captain?” Francis asked. He’d climbed out over James, finding something to wipe his hand with.

“Oh, please don’t stand on ceremony.” James propped himself up on one elbow. “I mean it. Would you truly require it? I don’t, I am not advocating a complete removal of power structure but…”

“Well, I certainly don’t think we should announce what has taken place, but,” Francis pulled up a chair, sitting and holding out a hand, “I would be terribly sorry if…I don’t want to presume, but I would not wish this to be an assignation that was left with the ships.”

“You would like to tumble me again,” James said with mild accusation.

“Rather crude and reductive. If that’s all you wish.” Francis’ expression of satisfaction retreated, his lip curling.

“It isn’t.” James sat up, swinging his legs off the edge of the berth, rearranging his trousers.

“Isn’t what? Would you…”

James stood. God, he was tired. His bones ached. He reached for the other man.

“Yes, Francis.” James smiled down at Francis. Grumpy bastard. Whatever distance there had been between them before disappeared, the mirage of a chasm evaporating like morning mist in the sun. “I would like that very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> I chose the prompt " Touch-starved Fitzjames, canon-era" and boy did I have fun with this one!
> 
> THANK YOU to kamidog who reads almost everything I write before I hit the publish button - it's wonderful having another set of eyes on my work.
> 
> Also, thank you to Alexa Price (twitter handle @Downeast_Alexa) - she did a thread on JCR paintings and why that one of him looking rather trim and handsome actually wouldn't have been the Victorian ideal. I definitely referenced that in James' descriptions of himself.
> 
> Come find me on Twitter! Kiingboooo (two i's)


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